The Fate of Irish Sons

By Mark J. Mayfield

Sean O’Hanlon, an Irish American, is irrevocably linked to the land of his birth – that ancient place, its history and its people. Sean struggles to make sense of the legacy left to him by successive generations of family.  
Returning to Derry as a youth during “the troubles” between Catholics and Protestants, fateful bonds formed with his beloved Maggie and a friend and rival, Denis McCullen.  
When Sean is drawn into the nightmare of violence while attempting to save others and nearly loses his life escaping a police trap, he becomes an outlaw himself. Prophetically, Denis, who becomes a member of the Provisional Wing of the IRA, before being banished by the IRA only to pursue a life as an international terrorist, convinces Sean that their separate paths are destinies entwined for life. 
Sean leaves Maggie behind and becomes a Navy SEAL and begins to doubt, then curse the choices he has made along the way. He longs for his precious Maggie. Their love transcended their own mortality, yet whether by God’s design or his own ill choices, they could never be together.  
Sean embarks on a life journey that takes him from the “troubles” in Ulster to the jungles of South East Asia; from California beaches to the wind-swept mountains of Iran; and from the polished corridors of the Pentagon to the cool morning skies above the Iraqi desert.  
Like pieces of a puzzle, every turn in his life is an integral part of a prophetic equation. The final piece is a terrorist plot that leads Sean back to Maggie and Denis where it began in Derry and the climactic confrontation.  
Through it all, Sean strives to shape own destiny, only to succumb time and time again to those unyielding bonds, The Fate of Irish Sons.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark J. Mayfield
• Release date: May 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513098616

Book preview

PROLOGUE

In those final moments before my plane taxied out onto a soggy runway, I gazed through the small, oval window at a sullen sky.  Droplets of rain rolled down the thick glass further obscuring my view of this dark and rainy October morning.  How perfectly it fit my mood.  A soft-toned chime gained my attention followed by a woman’s voice—a voice some would probably have described as cheerfully British. On this particular morning, I found it anything but cheerful and wished to God I had been able to catch a military flight out of Lakenheath.  She welcomed us aboard and began her recitation on emergency procedures for the cross-Atlantic flight.  With my right arm immobilized, I one-handedly slid the seat belt under the London Times lying folded across my lap.  It was then that the front-page headline caught my attention.  Terrorist Killed in Northern Ireland.  It was the story that prompted me to buy the paper in the first place, though I was now hesitant to read it.  After all, very little of it would be the truth.  It wouldn’t be the newspaper’s fault, of course.  They could print the story using only the facts provided to them by the Army’s information officer.  Even so, I had to read it.  It would be Denis’ only obituary—his epitaph.

I never noticed the plane taking off, as the first paragraph so completely captured my thoughts. 

LONDONDERRY, N. IRELAND—British security forces shot and killed an armed ter­rorist just outside of Londonderry early Sunday morning.  Authorities say Denis McCullen, a former member of the outlawed Irish Republican Army (IRA) and known terrorist with connections to Germany’s Red Army Faction, was confronted by soldiers as he tried to make his way into the Creggan Estates, a predominantly Catholic housing development and his boyhood home.  Refusing to comply with the army’s orders to surrender, McCullen, armed with an explosive device, attempted to take a woman hostage.  Being left no alternative and fearing for the woman’s safety, an Army marksman fired three shots killing McCullen.  The woman, whose identity has been withheld, was unhurt in the incident.  Authorities say that McCullen, while in his mid-teens fled the country to escape arrest for subversive activities against the government in Northern Ireland.  It is not known why McCullen, age 37, had returned to Ulster."

On finishing the article, I closed my eyes.  I could see Denis McCullen’s face and Maggie’s.  I thought about the newspaper’s description of that morning.  How distorted the story had become.  Not so much by the lies as by what was left untold.  Sure, the whole story could never be told, nor the role I had played in it.  How could they have explained that the terrorist killed in Northern Ireland was not shot by British soldiers but instead, by a United States Navy SEAL?  Too many other details would have to be revealed.  There are times when the public is better off not knowing the truth.  This was such a time.

I thought to myself, Just how did I become involved in all of this?  And from somewhere deep within my consciousness, I heard Denis cry out, Fate, Sean.  It was your fate.  A slight smile briefly flickered across my lips.  Then it is fate that has reached back so far, even beyond a man’s lifetime, even many lifetimes, to so keenly direct my life.  And to what end?  For my involvement in this story I would have to go back in time, back to my father’s time and his father’s before him, for so thoroughly entwined are the fates of Irish sons.

1

DERRY

The Navy cargo ship churned slowly up the River Foyle, dense black smoke spewing from her stacks clouding the American flag waving from the aft mast.  A cargo of sophisticated communications equipment was securely loaded deep within the ship’s hold.  Its destination was the United States Naval Communication Station, Londonderry, Northern Ireland.  For the next thirty years or so, nearly all U.S. military communications between Europe and the States would be transmitted through this base.  During its time of operation this base was a vital part of the U.S. and NATO infrastructure, and it had the distinction of being the only American military installation in Ireland, north or south.

Standing alone at the bow, leaning against the railing, was Second Class Petty Officer, Jack O’Hanlon.  Assigned to accompany this cargo, which was at the time the world’s most state-of-the-art electronic wizardry, Jack was now delighted to finally be in the land he had heard so much about in his youth.  It hadn’t been his first choice of assign­ments though, he had asked for UDT, the Navy’s Underwater Demolition Team.  He knew some of the guys in the teams and knew that he was by nature, more suited to their kind of work.  But for now, the Navy thought differently.  To his way of thinking, he made the mistake of scoring high in the area of electronics on the aptitude test he was given when he enlisted.  As a result, he was rewarded with the best technical schools that the military had to offer, all of which represented a large investment on the part of Uncle Sam.  Thus came his current orders, to help supervise the transportation of the aforementioned equipment, assist in its installation and serve aboard the base for a minimum two-year tour.

It was the two years that really ate at him.  Given that the year was 1953, the Korean conflict would soon be over, American and North Korean delegates were already meeting in Panmunjom to negotiate an armistice.  There was simply no chance that Jack would get his UDT and make it to Korea before it was all over.  He was most perplexed by the anguish he felt at the prospect of missing the fight.  What kind of man wants to go to war, he wondered.  It made no sense to him.  He had no desire to kill anyone and he himself most certainly didn’t want to die; yet he had this inexplicable feeling of regret.  He was going to miss the action in Korea; the war would be over.  He never talked to anyone about these thoughts back then, feeling a bit ashamed and embarrassed by them.  He could have chalked it up to mere youthful bravado, but that wasn’t it.  He had no answers other than it was his nature and he could only accept it.  Though deep in thought, he was keenly aware of the biting cold wind that stung his eyes and smacked at his cheeks.  He pulled the collar of his pea coat up to cover his ears.  Dad never told me how friggin cold it gets here, he thought to himself. 

New feelings began to stir from deep within his Irish soul; it was a feeling of homecoming.  He gazed blurry eyed at the passing landscape so beautiful and serene.  The deep green of the hills rose from the thickly foliaged banks and disappeared into the mist of an ever dark and oppressive sky.  He surveyed the strangely familiar countryside, the green fields and rock walls that stretched and rolled and disappeared into the distance.  Sheep and cattle grazed lazily, oblivious to the fierce cold wind.  Jack had always dreamed of coming to Ireland someday, and although at his briefing they had stressed that this was Northern Ireland—not Ireland—the distinction mattered little to him.  Such distinctions were political, but this land was real and it was the land of his father.  He smiled as he thought of his father who had emigrated from Ireland in his early thirties.  Jack’s memory of his father was that of a man aged beyond his years, from too much drink, and perhaps too many barroom brawls.  He could only guess at what his father’s roguish youth might have been like, for the old man never talked about it.  By the time Jack was born, the old man walked hunched forward, was thin and frail, and suf­fered from severe diabetes.  But Jack also remembered his dad’s large hands.  The large, knuckled-scarred hands, which were the last vestige of a once powerful and able-bodied seaman.  It was as a merchant seaman that the elder O’Hanlon first sailed from Larne Harbor to Liverpool and eventually settled in Boston where he married a fine woman that was over fifteen years his junior. 

The old man passed away when Jack was only ten, but not before providing his young son with hundreds of stories and myths about his mystical, Green Isle, three thousand miles across the sea.  Jack dearly loved his father, and when his mother married Kenneth Maguire, only two years after his father’s passing, he resented it immensely.  He immediately butted heads with the new patriarch and for the next eight years there was no peace in the Maguire-O’Hanlon household.  Mr. Maguire tried his best to be a father to him, but Jack would have none of it and only grew more antagonistic.  The fighting grew louder and more physical as Mr. Maguire demanded the respect deemed his as head of the house, but only got contempt from the boy. 

When Jack finished school, he at once informed Mr. and Mrs. Maguire that he intended to join the Navy.  At that point they were only too supportive.  So at just barely eighteen years of age he joined the United States Navy. He had thought of joining the Marines but as his father was a sailor he felt compelled to answer the call of the sea.  Jack now mused at that thought.  In his two years in the navy, this was the first time he had spent any appreciable time on board a ship.

He stood transfixed, lost in deep thought as his ship steamed past St. Columb’s Light.  He sniffed at the moist cold air, and ran the back of his hand across his watery eyes.  The ship came round a bend in the river, and the terrain abruptly flattened out.  The city of Derry, or Londonderry as some prefer (another one of those political things), lay just ahead.  Derry is an old city, steeped in history.  Jack’s father being from nearby County Donegal often told him about this dark, brooding place.  There was the story about the Apprentice Boys, who closed the gates of the city in the face of the King’s Army, and the siege that followed.  Relief ships broke through a floating boom that had been placed across the river to close it off and finally ended the siege.  It was this very river on which such events occurred centuries before.  But Jack was only a child when he was told these stories and now they all seemed to run together in his mind.  It had been a long time since those evenings he’d spent upon his father’s lap, his daddy seated in the big overstuffed chair, smoke from his daddy’s pipe swirling about the tassels of the yel­lowed lampshade.  Suddenly, the horn on the stack boomed Jack back to the present.  A barrage of orders streamed from the bosun’s bullhorn, and the crew went to work bringing the ship to rest along the quay.

It was early Saturday morning when they arrived at Londonderry Harbor.  Unload­ing would not commence until Monday.  Given shore leave, Jack and a few bud­dies headed into town.  While Jack actually seemed to enjoy the peaceful little town, the others became frustrated as they searched in vain for the sleazy bars and other usual sailor haunts.  None of these Yanks had visited Derry before and all but Jack found it too tame for their taste.  By mid-afternoon they returned to the ship leaving Jack to explore on his own.  Around four p.m. it was already getting dark.  He had found his way up a stone stairway that led to a promenade atop of the historic wall that surrounded the oldest portion of the city.

History was alive here, and Jack’s imagination was rampant.  Bits and pieces of his father’s stories began to fall into place as he walked along the wall and read the placards placed at historically significant sites.  They described the events that happened there over three hundred years ago.  He leaned against a greenish lichen-covered parapet and be­gan daydreaming as he looked out at the town, which had outgrown the confines of the old wall.  He was looking past the town now, back in time when pasture and bog surrounded this walled city.  King James’ Army, the Catholic army, camped beyond cannon’s reach, and the sounds and fury of war loomed in Jack’s ears.  The besieged within the city’s wall were starving and yet ever defiant, crying No Surrender to their encroaching foe.  Suddenly, he realized it was raining.  He gazed up at the clock face of the Guild Hall, which was illumi­nated against the now black sky.  It was five o’clock.

Feeling a sudden chill he stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and headed for the stairs.  Coming up the stairs just as he was about to descend were two young men about his own age.  They were talking and sharing a cigarette when they glanced up and saw him.  One of the lads wore a tattered sweater, which was severely stretched at the nap so that it sagged around his neck.  Bare headed his wet dark hair laid plastered to his head.  The other had short sandy hair, which stood up defying the rain.  He wore a worn faded black coat with two of its three front buttons missing.  As they came closer, Jack noticed how dirty they were, their hands black with coal dust, their faces streaked by the rain.  Jack also saw trouble in their faces.  He had grown up in a tough Irish neighborhood in Boston, and he knew the look of trouble when he saw it.  He pulled his hands from his pockets and as­sessed the two men and the narrow stairwell.  He would have the advantage of being higher on the stairs.  Good evening, gentleman, he said in an unmistakable American-Boston accent.

Ah, Jimmy, a visitor to our fair city, hey.  Where ya from lad?

Boston said Jack with a broad smile, Jack’s my name, Jack O’Hanlon.  They paused as they looked up at him.

So you one of us then, Jack?  Jack figured they were referring to his religion.  Look boys, I’m American and want nothing to do with your politics.  If that’s not good enough for ya then that’s too friggin’ bad.  Actually, he probably didn’t use the word friggin. This was typical of Jack O’Hanlon. He had been in more than his share of fights, with the odds worse than this and always came out on top.  He coolly stared into their faces, suddenly appearing much bigger to them than they originally gauged.  The sandy-haired fella’s face suddenly turned to a wry smile.

Och, aye, sure you must be one of us, lad.  You’re just as belligerent.  They were laughing now and the tension quickly abated as they brushed by.  Good to meet ya, O’Hanlon, one said.  Yeah, cheerio Jack, said the other.

Likewise, said Jack as he proceeded down the steps.  Yeah, this is Northern Ireland, he said to himself.  The steps came out to an archway through which a street breached the wall.  There were a number of girls huddled there to escape the rain as they waited for their bus.  Hands back in pockets, Jack leaned against the wall, and casually glanced over at the girls, noticing they seemed intently interested in him.  He smiled politely and then turned his gaze to the rain, which was now a downpour.

Excuse me, sir, he heard a young girl address him.  He turned to greet the sweet voice.  How very pretty she was, he immediately thought to himself.  Her auburn hair and rosy cheeks were in beautiful contrast with such fair skin.  Do you happen to have the time? she asked, while motioning to her wrist.

Pulling back the sleeve of his jacket, he took a quick look at his watch.  Five after five, miss, he said smiling.  It occurred to him that being a local girl, she knew very well that the huge clock tower was clearly visible only a few steps from where she stood.  He smiled even broader.

Thank you, she responded, returning a coy smile.  Our bus seems to be running late.

Jack nodded, then before she could turn away, he added, Would you happen to know a good place to eat around here?

Oh, sure.  There’s a fish and chips place just up Shipquay Street here and across the street... As she gave him directions to a host of pubs and restaurants, the two of them moved closer to each other until they were standing nearly face-to-face.  He stared into her green eyes while trying to make sense of her directions, which was most difficult for she spoke with such rapidity.  Fearing that her bus would arrive too soon he interrupted, I’m Jack O’Hanlon from Boston.

With that same coy smile and a twinkle in her eyes she replied, And I’m Mary Gallagher from Derry.  Pleased to meet you, Jack O’Hanlon.

When the bus finally arrived, neither one wanted to say goodbye.  As the other girls boarded, Mary in a moment of complete abandon invited Jack to her home for tea and to meet her family.  He readily accepted.  Oh, how the other girls gossiped and giggled at Mary’s brazenness.  Her parents though, were not so amused.  It was one thing for her to bring a friend home unexpectedly for tea, but this was a young Yankee sailor whom she had only just met.  Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher eyed the young man suspiciously, I hope you don’t get the wrong idea about me daughter, Mr. Gallagher said.  She isn’t in the habit of bringing home strangers.

Not at all, sir, I have only the utmost respect for Mary.  I think her gracious invitation was offered as a heartfelt gesture towards a lonely sailor far from home, and nothing more.  Mr. Gallagher liked Jack’s blarney, and by the end of the meal he seemed part of the family.  Of course, it helped too that Jack’s father was from County Donegal.  Jack spent all his off duty time at the Gallagher’s.  Tom, Mr. Gallagher, reminded Jack of his own father and they got along splendidly.  Jack soon found that old Tom Gallagher could spin yarns every bit as colorful and stirring as those of his father’s.  After an appropriate period of casual friendship had passed, Mary and Jack began dating in earnest. 

Seldom do two peo­ple so young, fall so completely in love.  They were wed that June on a bright and glorious day.  It was a grand church wedding followed by singing and dancing and a fair amount of drinking, too.  Late that night as the festivities ebbed and the Guinness ran dry, Jack eyed Tom as he approached him looking somewhat melancholy.  Well you’ll be taking her away now, off to America.  His voice was low, but matter of fact. Aye, there’s no future for ya here.

Jack was sympathetic, Well, Tom, I’ve still got another year of my tour here.  I know Mary frets a bit about leaving, but I’ve told her we’ll be able to visit.  He reflected for a moment, then added, You’re right though, there’s no future for me here.  There doesn’t seem to be much of a future for any of the young men here.

Tom sighed, Aye, Jack, you’ve got the truth of it. He downed the last of his ale and slapped Jack on the back. You’re a good man, Jack.  Take good care of me Mary.

During the following year, in late summer, Mary gave birth to their one and only child, a strong, healthy son whom they named Sean Thomas O’Hanlon.  Yeah, that’s how my mother and father met and how I came into the picture.  My fate already well in hand.

Mom often told me that those first few years were the happiest in her life.  Dad was offered Underwater Demolition Team (UDT) if he extended his tour in Londonderry, which he did and Mom was thrilled.  We lived on the base where she had the better of two worlds; American comforts and all her family close by.  It couldn’t last though, and it was a sad day indeed for her when finally Dad got his orders to report to the Navy base at Little Creek, Virginia.  Dad was excited though.  He got his UDT.  When we first arrived in the States, we spent a week with Grandpa and Grandma Maguire.  They just loved mom and even Dad and Grandpa finally seemed to get along.  However, Boston was a long way from Virginia Beach and we rarely saw the Maguires except at Christmas.  It was quite an adjustment for Mom, so far from home and loved ones.  Although she missed her family very much, she tried to keep busy with our own little family and not dwell on her loneliness. 

Dad was as supportive as he knew how to be, but his training regimen left him little time with us.  After UDT training, dad drew his first sea duty and was gone for six months.  Mom, determined to be a good Navy wife, never com­plained.  As much as Dad was gone in those days, mom and dad managed to retain a very loving relationship.  When he was home it was a celebration, with picnics, parties, and all sorts of outings, most of which took place at the beach.  Dad just couldn’t seem to stay out of the ocean.  By the time I was five I was already quite comfortable in the water, although Mom was always nervous about it.  Dad would hoist me up on his back, and with me hanging on to his neck would charge into the surf.  The waves would crash over us, as I held my breath until I thought my chest would collapse all the while holding onto his neck so tight it had to have choked him.  Then, we would break the surface and he’d be laughing and I’d start laughing too.  When we were out beyond the breakers and the water was calm, we would roll onto our backs and float awhile. 

We would talk about various things, as the gentle rollers would lift us then lower us beneath a warm summer sky.  Dad would finally say, Ah, we’ve worried your ma long enough and wave at Mom who was pacing back and forth at the water’s edge.  Reluctantly I would roll over and latch onto my dad as he propelled us back to the beach.  Inevitably dad would have to leave again, he seemed to be continually training or going to school and then there was sea duty, which took him away for many months at a time.  I remember when he first told me about the Navy SEALs, shortly after he made the team.  He and Mom had been talking in low voices and I knew something was up when I saw Mom trying to hide the tears in her eyes.  I had only seen her cry one other time.  Then they had explained to me that she had a miscarriage and lost the child Mom so badly wanted.  There would never be any brothers or sisters.  Dad seeing the concern in my eyes, touched Mom’s cheek then lifted me up onto his lap.

Ya know Sean about how I’m a Navy diver? I knew very well that he was a diver, and was constantly asking him about it, he was in the UDT.  Yeah, Dad. I said in a puzzled voice.  He went on, Well, awhile back I joined a new team called the SEALs.  I was really puzzled now, The SEALs are the Navy’s special warfare guys, he continued, It’s like the UDT but we are trained to fight what they call unconventional warfare.  At twelve years of age, I had no idea what he was talking about but I pretended I did.

My team will be going overseas in a few months, to Vietnam.  I’d heard my Dad and his buddies talk about Vietnam, I knew that there was a war going on there and America was somehow involved.  He said he was sorry he’d spent so much time away but he had to train very hard so he wouldn’t get hurt over there.  To me, he was invincible and I knew nothing could happen to him and that Mom had nothing to worry about.  Besides, Dad told me that was so.  He would never lie to me.

Those were even tougher months for Mom.  Though by this time she had the support of a number of friends who were wives of other SEALs, she was gripped by fear of Dad’s imminent tour.  The evening news was now covering the Vietnam War every night in graphic detail and with each broadcast, Mom be­came a little more distraught.  We saw less of Dad then as ever before.  He left in the morning before light and didn’t return until very late.  Usually I’d be asleep, though I tried hard to stay awake, listening intently for the sound of his key in the lock.  There were many nights he didn’t come home at all.  Mom would often fall asleep in his big chair waiting for his return. 

One night I was awakened by the strangest sound, the sound of a man crying.  I ran out of my room to the living room where I saw Mom in the big chair, my Dad was on his knees in front of her, his head cradled in her arms.  I never thought he was capable of crying.  He looked over his shoulder at me and wiping his sunken bloodshot eyes on his huge sleeved bicep, motioned me over to him.  As I approached him he stood up, then lifted me up into his arms as if I was a baby and he hugged me.  My dearest son, he said. I’m so sorry I’ve not been here for you.  Please forgive me.  He was crying again and it must have been contagious for I began crying also, though I didn’t know why.

I awoke the next morning, wondering if the previous night had all been a dream.  I went in to wake Mom for mass, as this was our Sunday morning routine, and not finding her in the big chair in the living room, I went to her bedroom where she and Dad lay in each other’s arms.  I immediately ran and jumped on them wherein dad quickly got me in a headlock and began tickling me.  My laughter proved as infectious as his crying the night before because we all began laughing hysterically.  As Mom would have said, it was a grand day. 

After breakfast, Dad and I tried to talk Mom into missing church just this one time, but she wouldn’t have it, saying this would be the last chance for us to attend mass together as a family for a long time.  Dad looked at me with narrowed eyes and told me he was shipping out that Wednes­day.  Before I could react, he grabbed me by both arms and again lifted me high above him, telling me there would be no sadness that day and we would have fun.  It was an order.  That Sunday was one of the happiest days I can remember.  After church we packed up the car and spent the rest of the day at the beach.  That night I tried to stay awake not wanting it to end, while Mom and Dad kept yawning and looking at the clock saying how late it was getting.  Then, I just thought they were really tired.

Grandma Maguire arrived Tuesday afternoon from Boston and we all accompanied Dad to the air base early Wednesday morning.  I was filled with a mixture of sadness and immense pride as I watched my Dad join the other warriors as they climbed the steep ramp of the C-130.  We watched from the tarmac as the huge camouflaged plane lumbered down the runway then, with turboprops screaming, lifted its massive bulk into the sky.  After a few minutes it was obscured by the shimmery heat waves from its engines and all that remained was the smell of the exhaust, which has become so familiar yet always reminds me of that day.  It was the last day I saw my dad.

I don’t have much recollection of the many months that followed, although the highlights were the letters from Dad.  We watched the news a lot, always keeping an eye out for Dad or other Navy SEALs, but they were kept fairly secret in those days.  Dad had always been keen on physical fitness, and by now it had rubbed off on me.  I ran everywhere, always going further and faster.  There was swimming almost every day at the base pool, and a constant repertoire of pushups, sit-ups, pull-ups and a host of other exer­cises.  I was determined to make my dad as proud of me as I was of him.  Before dad left he promised Mom that he’d take us to visit her family in Derry when he returned.  I didn’t remember any of the Gallagher clan, of course, and Mom was really missing them.  Dad’s promise was her salvation during those long lonely months.  She talked about it often, making plans, and her voice regained some of the lilt that had been drained away over the past few years.

We were both feeling quite euphoric one particular Saturday morning.  Dad had been gone for a little over five months and would be returning soon.  Mom was writing her family a letter detailing our travel arrangements and I was writing Dad when we heard a couple of cars pull up to the front of the house.  I looked up at Mom as she casually glanced out the window.  Suddenly there was a look of horror on her face as she rose from her chair.  I could feel myself become flushed as I watched her struggle to compose herself while she walked to the door.  By now, I too was on my feet and peering out the window.  There were three naval officers and a sailor in dress blues heading up our sidewalk.  I recognized the sailor as being one of Dad’s buddies, he was a SEAL, and one of the officers was our base chaplain, Father Dunn.  They all wore grim faces, and I knew what Mom knew.  Mom stood at the door for what seemed to be an eternity, one hand on the doorknob, the other clenched in a fist to her mouth, waiting for the doorbell.  Our hearts surely stopped when that dreaded sound broke the silence.  I was behind Mom now when she slowly opened the door, tears already rolling down my face.  I could see the pain in their eyes.  Their words became incoherent to me as my mind tried to evade this horrible reality.  Mom’s crying seemed to be coming from further and further away becoming lost in a dark chasm without time or place.  But reality could not be avoided, as I became aware of someone holding my arms. Dad I cried, as my eyes focused on Father Dunn’s face, the sound of Mom’s crying now growing loud, so loud as to block out any other sounds.  Father Dunn had been talking to me, but I had not been hearing him.  ...needs you Sean, you must look after her now.  Do you hear me son?  Your mother needs you.  You must now be as brave as your father.

I wanted to run away, as fast and as far as possible, but the chaplain was right, I now had to take care of Mom.  Dad would expect this from me.  Standing tall and straight, I looked over at Mom.  She had collapsed, and being caught in their arms, was car­ried to the couch.  An officer held her hand and talked quietly to her, his words not being heard, yet he continued.  She was no longer crying now, but sobbing, You promised, you promised, over and over, you promised, you promised. I vowed then, never to make a promise I couldn’t keep.  As I walked towards Mom, the sailor who had been standing mo­tionless, both hands holding his hat in front of him, snapped to attention.  His name was Pete Towers, we would meet again some years later.

Your father was very proud of you, son.  He talked about you and your mother all the time.  Pete spoke to me as if I were someone important.  I tried to be worthy of his respect and made another vow not to cry anymore.

It was just Mom and I that evening.  Mom finished a cup of tea that I had made for her, then looking at the clock said in a quiet but resolute voice, Well, Sean, I must call Grandma Maguire now before it gets too late so as to let them know.

Ma, if you’d like, I’ll call them.

Ah, you’re a dear lad, Sean, but this is my place.  I knew how hard it was for her to make that call, yet she put aside her own immense pain and now thought only of Grandma’s grief.  As I listened to her talk on the phone, her voice so soothing and strong, I thought what a grand woman she was and how very proud Dad must be.

With a lot of help from Pete Towers and various Navy officials the funeral arrangements were made.  Dad would be buried alongside his father, in his native Boston.  We stayed with Grandpa and Grandma Maguire during this time.  I never had really gotten to know Grandpa Maguire but took to him right off; he was very kind to my Mom.  Some of Dad’s old friends from his neighborhood held a wake in his honor with endless toasts and eulogies.  There were a number of SEALs that had been invited, who in turn gave graphic accounts of barroom fights and jungle exploits and the beer flowed freely.  I knew right off these were my kind of people. 

The next day brought us to church for the funeral mass.  I don’t really remember the mass, only Dad’s casket stationed in front of the altar and the smell of incense as the priest swung it over the casket.  Afterwards we assembled upon a lush green knoll, a great gathering of people who stood sullen and teary eyed.  An Irish band played a fitting seaman’s chantey, the same, I was told, as had been played at his father’s funeral.  The casket was carried upon the shoulders of sailors in full dress uniform, and a marine honor guard saluted him with a volley of shots fired in perfect unison.  Among all the orations lavished upon my dad during this time, it occurred to me as I stood at my Mom’s side looking at the American flag draped over him, there had been one unspoken truth.  True he was a brave and dedicated sailor, who loved his country and family, but it wasn’t those things that brought Dad to his ultimate fate.  More to fact, it was in spite of them.  Dad died doing what he loved.  He never made any excuses to Mom or myself in his choice of profession and we simply ac­cepted it as did he.  We didn’t have to understand it, although many years later I would understand it all too well, but only love him and know he loved us.

And so it was that I lay upon the now bare casket, the unfinished letter that I’d been writing when the two Navy cars pulled up outside our house.  And upon the letter Mom rested a lock of her auburn hair, he was always telling her how much he loved her hair.  With these we bade him fare-thee-well and goodbye.  As Mom clutched her husband’s flag close to her breast and my­self the diver’s watch he received on graduation from UDT School, I held Mom’s arm and we turned and walked away.

2

THE HOMECOMING

It was Grandpa Maguire who first broached the subject, the evening of Dad’s funeral. We were sitting down for supper when he spoke to Mom, So Mary, you’re proba­bly anxious to be seeing your family again.  Grandma gave him a scornful look. He cleared his throat and quickly continued, "But ya know Mary, though we haven’t spent as much time together as I would have liked, I want you to know we love you both very much and would like very much to have you stay with us.  Ya know after you